


playing favorites

by The_Wonderful_Jinx



Category: The Black Tapes Podcast
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Strand-centric, alex helps a bit, featuring: christmas parties / meeting the in-laws / and jinx's blatant music choices, i acknowledge the canon and i blissfully disregard it, strand gets better in this one, strand gets his life back together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-12 08:39:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18442982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wonderful_Jinx/pseuds/The_Wonderful_Jinx
Summary: “You will finish what my wife had started, Miss Reagan.”





	playing favorites

 

**I.**

Dr. Richard Strand -- like most people -- has a wide variety of favorite things that are the foundations of his being. The little details that define and separate him from the other Richards, the other Strands, and the other husbands and fathers of world to make him wholly, truly unique.

He has a favorite pen.

(Two, actually. A .05 gel he gets in a five pack for common, everyday work. It glides smoothly over every type and quality of paper. It dries quickly and it doesn’t smudge. The other is a fountain pen -- glossy, black enamel with gold detailing -- that Coralee bought for him one Christmas for no reason in particular other than it looked like it suited him.)

He has a favorite spot to keep said pen.

(The gel pens are in a fine, leather pencil case with his initials embroidered with black thread, kept safe and always within reach within his book bag. The fountain pen stays in his study, sitting pretty on his desk next to the photos of Coralee and Charlie.)

His favorite color is blue.

(His cool blue, grey eyes, his father’s eyes. His mother’s sea-green eyes, but not his sister’s. Cheryl’s eyes were a fine, light brown from their father’s mother, Evelyn.

The dark blue shirt Coralee rushed out to buy for him when a hotel aide spilled coffee on him -- a complete accident, no harm no foul -- and he was due to present at a symposium in an hour and his extra shirt was nowhere to be found his luggage.

The dark waves lapping at the cliffs of Big Sur when he first took Coralee there on their second anniversary road trip. A storm had passed the night before, the waves seemingly creeping closer up the cliff side, rolling and churning, crashing against the rocks and quickening their erosion. Coralee was terrified. He and Charlie were enraptured.

He has a favorite room.

(Several. In his childhood home in New York, it was the room in which his mother kept and played an heirloom grand piano -- where most of his and Cheryl’s piano lessons came from. In the better days, his mother composed and gave music lessons to anyone who asked for a fair price. It was ‘her’ space, he and Cheryl were only allowed in there when she beckoned them. Even during the bad days, when their mother didn’t have the energy to clean or tune it, the siblings refused to go in there without their mother’s oversight.

In his house in --, he likes the laundry room to pace and think out loud and the dining room, because breakfast and dinner are the few times he can sit down and bask in the presence of his scholarly wife and budding renaissance daughter amidst the bustle of their lives -- he and his research, Coralee and her graduate work, Charlie and her various extracurricular, clubs, and hobby of the week.)

He has a favorite song.

(With some minor hesitation and embarrassment when brought up, it’s ‘Piano Man’ by Billy Joel. He can play decently, if given time to warm up. Just don’t ask him to sing. That honor goes to the better voices of Coralee and Charlie. Despite appearances and formal lessons, he’s fond of rock music, especially the stuff made in the 80s. He has shelves worth of vinyl he keeps, maintains, and plays when the mood strikes him or Charlie asks for recommendations.

It is, however not their wedding song. He and Coralee didn’t have one. They were both self-admitted horrid dancers so they saved themselves the humiliation and splurged on extra pastries.)

And he has a favorite number.

(Eleven. Just because. No reason why. It’s not lucky. It’s not particularly pleasing to his ear. No important date or time attached to it. Though he has contemplated on its nature, he likes it for what it is -- the number after 10, the number before 12.)

**II.**

Some things do not change after Coralee disappears, not important to be affected in the first place. But the parts that are, it is a drastic transformation. Fundamentally, superficially, unwillingly, Dr. Strand is an altered man.

The foundations of his world sift, crack, and finally shatter into a thousand little pieces without a hope of repair before his very eyes.

**III.**

Dr. Strand still has a favorite pen.

(Just one now. The gel pens for work and there’s plenty of it in his Now and in his Future. Work, work, work. That’s what his life has come to, tireless, manic work with only brief points of dreaded quiet moments where he his left alone with his misery and grief.)

He still has a favorite spot to keep said pen.

(Still in the pencil case in his book bag. The black-gold fountain pen stays locked away in his office desk. It will sit there and go forgotten by force and desperation, remembered bitterly, forgotten again, then brought out to be sadly reminisced over before being given away.)

He does not like the color blue.

(The family photos get shoved into storage -- into boxes, albums, closets, the dark corners of his world. They will be retrieved again, but not in the immediate Future.

He only looks in the mirror if it’s a necessity -- to shave or to dress.

The shirt Coralee bought for him is donated.

He doesn’t visit Big Sur. He never will.)

His favorite rooms have altered.

(The childhood house has been condemned. He lets Cheryl have the piano and anything else she wants in that cursed place.

He sells the house in Evanston -- and with it, all the sweet and painful memories -- and moves into a condo in Steeterville. Some may call it running away, but for Now, it’s a tactical retreat. It’s a fine place for a new bachelor who didn’t want to become one: bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living and dining tailored for one. It’s a place many dream of having when they ‘make it’, but for Strand, it is merely a place for his research, a place to eat and sleep when his body reminds him that he needs to. It’s fancy enough that someone would call it a ‘midlife crisis’ purchase, but what Strand is going through Now is more akin to a ‘midlife disaster.’

In the building’s basement, there is a laundry room. It’s quiet, rarely used and visited. The washing machine and dryer have a thick layer of dust before he starts using them. The people here are too rich, too vain to know how to do their own laundry and rely on outside services to do it for them. Strand is the only one who comes and goes in the years he lives there. He still paces and thinks, perhaps too much, too deeply, too calculating for a man with troubles like his.)

He doesn’t listen to music much these days.

(He downsizes during the move. He sells the piano and the record player but keeps the bookcase containing his vinyl collection. He buys an iPod when they first come out and puts all his usual songs on it. The only radio station he listens to is the local rock and oldies station but only rarely and when he needs the noise.

He tries to find a key board, while in a fanciful head-space, but after a few fitful and half-hearted attempts and melancholic meanderings at music stores, he gives up. He’s much too busy to find the time to play. There’s no one to sing for him or keep him company.)

Despite everything, he still has his favorite number.

**IV.**

Dr. Richard Strand doesn’t think he is capable of changing again. For better or for worse. Or at least, not in the way that Coralee’s disappearance had on him.

He is wrong about certain things -- either by is own arrogance or ignorance -- but he is not wrong in this particular case.

The vanishing of Coralee Strand was cataclysmic. A category five hurricane head-on-colliding with an F5 tornado. And the damage left behind is a mess of furious relatives, unanswered questions, nosy psychics, heated accusations thrown during the memorial service, and festering bitterness that will pave the way to abandonment issues (for Richard) and anger problems (for Charlie).

Richard does his best to hide the damage. Most people don’t know what to look for in the first place. They see the tailored suits, the cold blue eyes, and the wry grin and they pass him off as another smug academic in love with his own genius.

Alex Reagan, however, isn’t ‘most people.’

The arrival of Alex Reagan is sudden and insidious. The kudzu vine from hell, like the found its way into the garden of the old Evanston home. The one that Charlie went Ahab on -- waging a vicious war on it during the summer, cuttings, trimmings, and pesticides. Doing everything short of setting the entire yard on fire before Coralee talked her down.

By the time he realizes what she is, what’s she’s capable of, he knows it’s too late to get rid of her. When he sees her -- after she calls him eleven times, hounding his assistants and even his publisher -- his first thought is pointed, but accurate for a man who has no ability to tell the future.

“You will finish what my wife had started, Miss Reagan.”

He hates her Now, God Almighty does he loathes her. But she’s something and exciting and what else does he have left to lose? Powerless, he smiles ruefully. He shows her the black tapes and condemns them to whatever they might lead. Nothing and everything, mundane and madness, routine and ruin.

He damns her. He praises. He detests her. He adores her. He prays for her. He prays for himself.

The foundations of his world change once again. Alex Reagan, knowing or not, begins to sketch her own map.

**V.**

Dr. Strand has a favorite pen.

A .05 gel that glides perfectly over any type of paper, but he’ll use whatever Alex will pull out her bag, hair, or hoodie pocket like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat. If he’s near, she’ll just hand it to him. If there’s distance, she’ll yell ‘Kobe!’ and throw to him. Most times he catches it, some days he doesn’t and it hits his hand, his head, it falls short and hits the floor or goes sailing over his head and into the wall. No matter the outcome, it always gets a laugh out of him.

Dr. Strand has a favorite place to keep said pen.

In the leather pencil case in his book bag, assuming Alex hasn’t borrowed them all. If so, then they will be scattered to the winds -- in pen cups all over the PNWS office, in the moose mug on Alex’s desk, in a drawer in her apartment, or between the spaces in her sofa.

It’s a grown-up version of a treasure hunt. Some days he plays along. Other days he just buys another pack and lets the cycle continue. If he does run out and doesn’t feel like going to the store he rests easy knowing where he can find them.

**VI.**

Dr. Strand’s favorite color is green.

Alex says her eyes are just a light shade of brown. He argues they are hazel. In the right light -- just as the sun rises and they are in bed together -- he swears he can see the sharp, glass-like flecks of green. His eyesight isn’t going bad, he isn’t being romantic. He’s just being observant.

She has a dark, pine-needle green cable knit sweater that he bought her for their first Christmas. She wears it when the weather is right and sometimes when it’s not. It’s long in the arms, she has to roll the sleeves up, but it pairs well with everything in her closet and it keeps her nice and warm.

She has a pair of teardrop earrings, silver with intricate metal work and bright green beads interwoven through the metallic patterns. She wore them during their first meeting. She still wears them, mostly during the spring. Sometimes her hair snags on a bead and she asks him to help untangle hair from metal. It’s just another opportunity to be close to her.

His eyes are still pale, still blue, still wise, just how she described them years ago. Looking in the mirror is easier with her next to him.

“You’re always so sure about everything, you know? Your eyes reflect that. Even when you’re uncertain, even when you’re nervous, your eyes are honest,” she says and kisses him on the cheek.

**VII.**

Dr. Strand has a favorite room.

Whatever room Alex happens to be in, he isn’t picky. He’s partial to her apartment in Seattle, which always seems to get the perfect amount of sunlight, and bedrooms of any sort -- hotel, tent, his, hers. All rooms, any room, seems to improve with her presence.

He still does his thinking and pacing in the laundry room, albeit more relaxed and lackadaisical these days. She’s there thinking with him, sitting on the dryer, ironing their shirts, or hauling in and out baskets as they discuss cases, the nature of god, what they’ll have for dinner, and if they should get a new iron because she claims the current ones makes a weird noise that sets her on edge.

“More nervous than demonology,” he asks. Alex makes a face and shudders.

“Keep running that smart of yours, you’ll be doing your own ironing,” she says.

**VIII.**

Dr. Strand has a favorite song.

Whatever she’s singing along to on her iPod or on the radio. When they move in together, the combine and take stock of their music collections. He notes her Bubblegum pop and Euradance amidst Folk, Grunge, and Glam rock with curiosity. She notes his vinyl with a contemplative nod.

He still doesn’t get a keyboard or a piano. There isn’t room for it, but there is an upright piano in Mr. and Mrs. Reagan’s living room, which he finds during the annual Reagan Family Christmas Reunion/PNWS Christmas Bash. (His first meeting ever with her parents and the rest of the Reagan clan and all eyes are on him, more curious and wary than outright loathing. But with Alex and the rest of PNWS, he isn’t left to be a wallflower.)

The piano belonged to some relative far up in the Reagan tree and when they died, it somehow managed to get passed down to the only relative who didn’t know how to play it, Mrs. Reagan.She thought it would be a waste to toss it. If anything it was an interesting centerpiece. It’s made from choice pieces of maple, spruce, and birch with beautifully carved motifs of fleur de lis and ivy vines down the sides and legs. It only takes one tap of a key to hear how horridly out of tune it is --a sharp, sour note that slices through the room and makes everyone in the vicinity shudder.

“It may be out of tune since the Stone Age…” Mrs. Reagan -- a veteran DJ that hosts the daytime news and weather show for the local radio station -- says with a bemused grin.

“…But at least it sounds like an actual piano,” Mr. Reagan -- a veteran DJ that hosts an all-night oldies music show for the same station -- says over the excited thrum of the two different families converging in the house.

With a tuning lever in hand, Mrs. Reagan holding the digital tuner, Mr. Reagan’s shockingly good hearing over the party’s cacophony, and an hour or two, they manage to tune it to an acceptable degree.

The display has earned the attention of the party-goers, eager whispering and giggling. Alex is among them, nursing some mulled wine with Nic at her side.

“Know anything good?” Mrs. Reagan says.

“I can play ‘Piano Man’  and the rest of discography you’re fond of Joel. Some classical pieces as well,” he says, before he can stop himself.

Mr. and Mrs. Reagan share an approving look and nod.

“I told you our daughter has taste, Dear,” Mr. Reagan says.

“I wasn’t the one who chased out the last one, Dearest,” Mrs. Reagan replies.

“He hated Fleetwood Mac. That’s reason enough not to trust someone.”

Strand warms up as her parents politely and lovingly bicker in the background the way only a couple truly in sync with the other know how to. It feels like sinking into a warm bath, re-familiarizing himself with scales and chords. The crowd has evolved to an audience. He looks back to his onlookers, to Alex, with a grin only she would know was nervous.

“I said I can play,” he says. “Don’t expect me to sing.”

They don’t. Emboldened by wines, ciders, and other alcoholic drinks brought by various people, they all sing for him: members of the Reagan family, the PNWS staff, and Alex herself. It isn’t like Coralee and Charlie. This is something more. Dozens upon dozens of people and voices -- sober, drunk, tone-deaf, out of tune, warmed-up, and perfect -- fill the house and all its corners and make it shiver. When he’s done the thunderous applause, pleas of encore, and rapturous howling cheers for me that he receives is close to render him deaf.

Strand has never been in a crowd such as this that truly wanted him around. It takes a moment for him -- the self-styled kill-joy -- to realize they want him to stay.

“Now, if you know any carols that would really be something,” Mrs. Reagan says, waving her hands to get the crowd to simmer down to a more tolerable level.

“I don’t,” he says, disappointed in himself for letting his audience and Alex’s parents down. “I hope that isn’t a problem.”

Mr. and Mrs. Reagan pause. A silent conversation shared in narrowed eyes, a faint tilt or frown of the lip, or the raising or furrowing of brows. In the end they both shrug.

“Well, not everyone is perfect, Dearest,” Mrs. Reagan says.

“Says the one who got into a heated debate over which version of ‘All Along the Watchtower’ was the best, Dear,” Mr. Reagan replies.

“Now that’s not up for debate. Hendrix’s cover is the superior version and that is simply gospel!”

“I can certainly learn some for next time,” Strand quickly interjects.

They share another look. This one he knows all too well, it’s one Alex sports when there’s a daring challenge or a grand adventure to be had, impish and mischievous. She got the sparkle in her eye from her father, the wicked curve in her smile from her mother.

“You got yourself an early invite!” they say in startling unison. And in that moment, he knows he’s been formally welcomed to the family. Mrs. Reagan giving him a bottle of her favorite brandy -- which he accepts-- and an offer to take the piano --which he doesn’t-- solidifies it.

**IX.**

The foundations of Dr. Richard Strand’s world shift again, shuddering and wavering. He cannot remake, but he can reform and rebuild. He has some mastery over how things will turn out and a bit of control, with Alex’s help.

The wounds, the grief and bitterness left behind by Hurricane Coralee slowly begin to close. They will culminate into a sizable scar that he knows will ache and twinge for the rest of his life no matter how hard he tries. A life spent constantly aware that slipping up and reverting back to bad habits will do more ill than good is not what he hoped, but it’s certainly better than the alternative.

Though he knows it won’t go away, though he knows it will still hurt, he still takes time treating the wounds. He plucks out the infectious tissue, sets a fire to the malice towards his ex-wife and her sideways attempt at protecting him. He sterilizes it, sews it closed, wraps it up, and refuses to pick at the scarring when it begins to itch. For his sake, for Alex’s.

It’s messy work, but it’s not thankless or pointless in the least.

**X.**

The foundations of his world settle, finally, in a way he’s satisfied with.

**XI.**

Dr. Richard Strand has a favorite number.

Eleven. Always has, always will. There’s no rhyme or reason for it. It’s not particularly lucky or unlucky. It is the number after 10, the number before 12, the number of times Alex Reagan called before he finally gave in, replied, and changed their lives forever.

He thinks what could have happened if she stopped at ten. If he hadn’t replied at all.

Strand shudders at the thought.

**Author's Note:**

> -shows up after a 2 year hiatus drinking dunkin donuts-
> 
> Yo.
> 
> First off, a big thank you my beta reader, barefootwithneonhands. Her amazing insight and comments took this fic from good to great and i am so thankful that she took the time to read over this in it's rough stage.
> 
> And second, thank you for reading! I truly hope you enjoyed it!


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